


Three Spells

by etal



Series: Fairy Tales / Folk Tales [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 05:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13897443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/pseuds/etal
Summary: Three fairy tales on an A/T theme. They can be read in any order. The first one is pretty mild and supposed to be something which might be in Annella's Heptameron collection, the next one is Perrault-y, the third story comes closer to earning the 'Mature' rating.





	1. The Dancing Master

**Author's Note:**

> The seed for this came from discussion about "King" Armie I saw while lurking about the wonderful tumblrs which feed this fandom and mentions of Snow White and such, so please consider this dedicated to all of them and their life-giving content.

Once upon a time there was a quiet kingdom of great peace and prosperity. It knew summers of blazing heat when the fruit hung heavy on the trees, followed by glorious winters when the lakes would freeze and the people would celebrate the turning of the year with feasts of fire and plenty. The kingdom was ruled by a handsome young king who was loved by his subjects and known to be as wise as he was quick and strong. King Armand’s aspect was as rich and golden as the summer landscape of his country but in his heart he felt himself to be as cold as its winters. It was his duty to find a consort with whom to share the burden of his rule. As the years of his youth passed by he was courted by many worthy men and women but none could answer the longing he felt for a true companion. He began to dread the approach of the annual Peach Ball in high summer, when all eyes would be upon him and he would have to meet a procession of suitors eager for his favour. Above all, Armand dreaded the moment when he would be expected to choose a dancing partner. He felt himself to be deficient in the art and could not perform even the simplest of steps in front of the court.

Alone in his chambers, the King would dream of finding a lover with whom he could share his body and soul, and with whom even the trials of dancing would seem easy and natural.

One winter day, the King and his liegemen left the castle to hunt. There had been several weeks of hard frost and snow covered every inch of the land. Icicles decorated the bare trees of the forest and flurries of snow were kicked up by the hooves of the horses in the still air as they were spurred on in search of sport, with the King’s mighty steed, Heraclitus, the strongest and fastest of them all. The morning passed with little reward, until the King saw, through the skeletal trees, a glimpse of a white hart which seemed to stand quite still and return his stare. And then it was gone. With a cry, the King led the pursuit. The hart led them further into the forest and each time they gained upon it it moved like quicksilver, only to reappear impossibly further on. Soon, the King found himself quite lost and separated from the greater part of his retinue. Of all the party only his advisors Luca and Michael had been able to keep pace with him and their horses had been sorely tried and could go no further without rest. The King was sorry to lose the beautiful hart but the hunt was abandoned and they walked the horses to where the woods thinned and a path became discernible, leading after a while to a crossroads. As they surveyed the immediate countryside, made strange by the thick blanket of snow which overlaid the land and obscured the familiar features which might have acted as their waymarks back to the castle, the King suddenly observed a heaped bundle lying half covered in snow and barely distinguishable as a human figure.

Armand immediately swung down from Heraclitus and hurried to reach the body, fearing that he should find only death and ruin. Great was his surprise to find before him a young man, insensible but alive, clad in thin clothes and a cloak which might once have been fine, now pocked with rime and mud. He was as pale as the snow in which he lay, his hair spread against its whiteness in clusters of dark curls as thick and rich as the carved mahogany curves of the King’s bed. His lashes were dark, too, against his pale cheeks and his lips were touched with red, as if the only warm blood of his body were centred there. 

Removing his thick glove, the King laid his hand upon the stranger’s chest and touched the red lips and felt their faint warmth. Swiftly, he took off his own heavy cloak and lifting the young man into his arms as effortlessly as if he weighed no more than a handful of snowflakes, he wrapped him securely within its folds, and carried him to Heraclitus. With Michael’s aid, he took the boy with him onto the horse’s warm back so that with one strong arm he could support the drooping body against his chest as he rode, holding both reins with one hand. By now, the first faint stars of the winter afternoon had begun to appear, allowing Luca to determine the way to the castle and soon they were back within its walls, where the household rejoiced at the safe return of the King and his men and wondered at the strange souvenir he had gathered home from the woods.

Some whispered that it was unlucky to bring home anything found at a crossroads, and others, less superstitious, said he was most likely a foreign spy and should be shut up in a dungeon, but King Armand ordered that he be taken to chambers close to his own and given every attention necessary to the restoration of his health.

The young man had opened his eyes only once in all this time. As they rode, the king felt him stir and drew back the covering of the cloak to observe his face, to see his eyes open, eyes made up of the colours of the greenwood, and now fixed upon Armand’s own. The young man had smiled a faint smile and said, “Am I come home, then?”

Armand could not fathom his meaning so answered only, “I hope you will be well soon.”

For several days, Armand was not allowed to enter the room where the stranger lay, for fear of infection. He sent his own physician to him and received reports of his condition with an interest for which he could not account. He longed to know the reason why the boy had come to be lying friendless and unprotected in winter’s merciless grip.

Once the reports became more optimistic for the young man’s recovery the King excused himself from his discussions with his advisors and made his way to the guest chambers. A watching nurse curtsied low and hurriedly left the room to fetch spiced wine at his request. Alone, he was able to look as long as he wished at the young man, who lay asleep, looking rather small and slight in the large bed despite his man’s full grown height and the suggestion of supple strength in his well-made frame. He had gained some colour since Armand had rescued him from the snow, there was a touch of pink around the cheeks, still pale against the pillow. His hands rested gently on the brocade coverlet, his fingers were long and elegant, though showing bruises and small cuts from his period of travail. The setting of the tray of wine on the table behind Armand roused him from his contemplation and awoke the sleeper, whose eyelids fluttered open. Armand dismissed the nurse again and brought the wine to the bedside himself, holding it to the patient’s lips and allowing him a restorative sip. When he had drunk a little, the young man settled back against his heaped pillows with a sigh and his eyes rested on the King’s face with a curious expression.

“Forgive me, but you do not look like a nurse.”

Armand smiled at the bold statement. “You are right, I am the master here. I am King Armand, ruler of this kingdom and while you are most welcome, I wish to know what circumstances caused you to fall into so parlous a state. Are you of this nation?”

“I barely know, your Highness.” As he told his brief history of mixed parentage and stateless wandering, Armand noticed that while the young man spoke with unhurried and almost familiar frankness, his forms of address were quite correct and charmingly constructed. “I have lived among people of quality and think myself an artist: I am a musician and a speaker of verse. But my last position was in an unhappy household and I found my master was not content for me to _sing_ for my supper only. My freedom became more important to me than my daily fare and so I left, virtue intact and purse empty. I walked for many days and found shelter where I could, unknowing of which country I was in, even, and here my story becomes strange, my Lord. I was lost and wondering, hungry and exhausted, when on the path before me I seemed to see a hart of the whitest hue, almost silver against the snow. I cannot tell why but I felt I must follow him and did so with the very last of my little strength. I found myself at a crossroads and could no longer see the hart, only a frozen emptiness like death all about me. I despaired. I remember no more, until a feeling of great kindness and warmth delivered me from the cold ground. I felt as though an angel had stooped from heaven and held me to his breast.”

The nurse returned, this time with the physician, and Armand withdrew, rather glad to be able to hide his confusion at being mistaken for an angel, but stopped at the door to ask, “And your name?”

“Timothée, Sire." He smiled, "It will sound strange to your ear, I know.” 

The physician pronounced Timothée to be in no further danger: he was weak and under-nourished but these ills would be easily remedied by rest and comfort. King Armand, intrigued by his visitor and wishing to be able to look longer into his absorbing eyes and listen to his pleasant voice, would hear no argument for his being moved to less exalted accommodation. As the winter storms returned and leaving the castle became impossible, the King began to spend a portion of every morning at the bedside of his strange new houseguest and, after Timothée was able to spend the better part of the day awake, to seek out his room in the later afternoon and to stay well into the evening, if he had no other engagement. They played at chess and at Timothée’s request, Armand would read to him. But their chief pleasure was in conversation and as Timothée’s strength improved and he was able to leave his bed, and then the fireside, Armand took him on tours of the castle and soon its grounds, taking a new pleasure in describing the history of its architecture and how each generation had extended and developed the gardens.

As the winter receded and the pleasant breezes of spring carried the scents of the peach blossom which thronged the trees, Armand would sometimes grow pensive. One day, as they walked through the orchards, Timothée asked him what caused his occasional fits of sadness. Never before had Armand had a companion to whom he could entrust his dread of the Peach Ball, his reluctance to dance and all that must follow from finally joining the couples on the floor.

“…for I am so poor a dancer that I can never even begin to play my part properly.”

Timothée laughed and said, “Why, there is nothing easier! I will teach you to dance. It will be my method of repayment for your kindness to me these past months.”

And so their walks and talks gave way to dancing lessons as they closeted themselves in Armand’s rooms with only a small chamber orchestra for company.

Under Timothée’s patient tutelage, the King gradually began to feel less foolish and even to enjoy the sensation of dancing. It became Armand’s keenest pleasure to feel the gentle pressure of Timothée’s long fingers upon the small of his back, guiding him this way and that, and demonstrating how to hold and turn his partner. He knew the steps: an endless series of dancing masters had drilled him so that he could repeat them correctly but Timothée demonstrated them with sinuous grace and showed him how to use them to describe the passion that the figures of the dance were supposed to imitate, and kindle.

“Now, for the final section of the Rondine you must look directly at me as we move together, and then I will drop my eyes and step to the right, leaving only my fingertips in yours, and then you must draw me back, yes, just like that, very good, and place a hand on my waist to turn me into your arms. Oh yes, excellent!”

Armand knew the court was whispering about the newcomer and that gossip said the King had fallen under the stranger’s spell. His advisors pressed him to make this Peach Ball the most elaborate there had been for years and repeatedly drew his attention to the most eligible and diplomatically advantageous matches that one simple choice and but a short dance could make possible. Armand heard the warning in their words and though he longed to keep Timothée by him he began to fear that enchantment had overtaken his reason.

On the day before the Ball, the King and his dancing master walked in the woods and with only Timothée’s singing to keep the time, they stepped their way through all the court dances. As they drew to the end of the Rondine, Armand followed the movements which drew Timothée to his body in a close embrace and found himself overwhelmed with desire to press their lips together. Resisting the impulse, he shook himself, like he was awakening from a daydream, and said, as if from a distance away, “I thank you. You have helped me and I am grateful to you. Tomorrow I will dance at the Peach Ball and find a suitable partner to be my consort. You may choose any item you wish from the treasury in recompense for your pains with me.”

Timothée was quiet for a moment before bending in a graceful bow. 

“I thank you, my King, for your kind and generous notice,” he said. “I have taught you to dance and now I must leave and find my way in the world. Perhaps I will travel to the courts of other kingdoms and make dancers of them all.”

The King was instantly speechless with jealousy at the thought of Timothée dancing with other lords and in his wrath he ordered him away. Returning to the castle, he gave orders that he should not be disturbed until the morrow and spent a sleepless night in his lonely chambers.

All the next day, as he was carefully prepared and primped for the Peach Ball, the King was lost in gloomy thoughts. His anger was gone and he felt only sadness at the thought of the loss of his friend. He sent for Timothée but the servants returned to say that he could not be found anywhere and that his small collection of belongings was gone with him. The King ordered further searches and sent riders out along the roads to the east and west, and to the north and south, but no sign of Timothée was discovered. As evening drew in and the guests began to arrive, Armand was dressed in a splendid costume of crimson velvet and silk. Jewelled rings were placed on his fingers, his neck and wrists hung with links of gold and silver, but his heart was heavy, heavier than it had been on any day since he first found his true treasure half-buried in the snow.

Turning his face to his royal duties, he made his entrance to the Ball in a torrent of trumpets and a great beating of drums. He sported with all the most beautiful young men and talked with the cleverest young women of his own and the neighbouring kingdoms. He distributed presents and called for music and presided over the feast with every appearance of pleasure and delight. When the time came for dancing, he made none of the excuses his advisors might have expected and strode with purpose to the centre of the ballroom. The crowd were thrilled and applause rang through the room, giving way to an expectant silence as everyone waited to see who the King would summon to be his partner.

The King surveyed the room and every head turned to follow his gaze to see where his choice would fall. 

“My lords and ladies, I thank you for your company this evening,” he said, his voice ringing to every corner of the ballroom. “You are all delightful. But I have this night decided that I must take my leave of you. A Kingdom must have a King, but a King must have a heart, and because of fear and foolish pride I have lost my heart of hearts. I must journey to recover it and only then may I dance with gladness.”

There was great consternation among the court when the King had spoken, but over them all a sweet voice sang out, “Then I return your heart to you, made double by the addition of my own.”  
The crowd hushed and parted to reveal Timothée, clad entirely in white, and with a face suffused with joy.

Armand held out his hand to Timothée and said, “You are my dancing partner and I will have no other.” Without hesitation, Timothée crossed the floor and joined him, and their feet proved as light as their hearts as they embraced and kissed and danced before the court, and led them all in dancing and merriment in celebration of the King’s beloved, found in the snow and won in the fruits and flowers of summer.

And they all lived happily ever after.


	2. The Mirror and the Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second Charmie fairy tale AU. You don't have to have read the first one.
> 
> Fairy tale romance with pinpricks of smut

There was once a rich old man who had devoted his life to collecting beautiful things and marvellous artefacts, which he stored, hidden away, in his country villa at C.. After years of indulging his taste for the possession of precious things, he began to feel his strength failing and understood that his end was drawing near, so he decided to organise his treasures. Some would be given as presents to his family, other items must go to the Crown to pay death duties, still others to the Church for the saving of his soul, and some to the Museum which the Collector had caused to be built in the City.

He engaged two young men to help him in his task, strangers to each other and both eager for work. A. was the scion of a wealthy family, seeking to make his own way in the world, and the other, T., was an artist, in service only to beauty and truth. All the summer, the young men worked hard, rising early to begin their work, shifting heavy objects from their hiding places around the mansion and keeping careful records of everything the Collector owned. At the end of each day they would report to him in his study and receive instructions about how to dispatch each item.

They found many strange and wonderful things in the dim rooms of the villa. Some were rare: there was a bundle of sheet music for a cycle of love songs, never before heard, signed by a famous composer; a cabinet full of stuffed birds, unidentifiable against any taxonomy of native species; a box of silk shoes so small and fine they might have been made for fairies. Some were secret: they found a sketch of the Queen when she was in her first years as the King’s mistress, represented as Andromeda, naked and chained. In the Library they discovered hidden shelves, on which were stacked cartographic charts of unknown countries illustrated with monsters, and star maps of constellations they did not recognise. Stacked deep in the high-sided carrels were books of erotic pictures, which the young men puzzled at and laughed over. There was a chest full of stoppered bottles, which held perfumes and resins, holding the cold clear scent of pine from the countries of the north or the heady spices of the south. Attempting to sort and classify them, they encountered a bottle containing a light-coloured liquid, one drop of which caused them to become as giddy as geese, and they lost an afternoon to hectic indecency, enchanted and inflamed by the merest scent of the oil from another dusty vial. The housekeeper flung a bucket of cold water over them when she found them _in flagrante delicto_ on the floor of their room and they shut the vial in a lead casket and buried it in the garden lest it tempt them to forget themselves again. But after that day, they did not go separately to sleep in their adjoining bedrooms, but slept together and transformed their day-time friendship into night-time passion. 

Their work was taxing but in each other’s company the time passed quickly. After they had reported their day’s finds to the Collector, they would be given their evening meal and then they would drink wine and eat fruit from the trees in the garden, talking quietly of art and the world. In the twilight garden, with its scent of moonflowers, the bats swooped low and the stars made pictures for them. 

The weeks passed by and the house was gradually emptied of its treasure. The young men talked about what would happen when they left. T. was to move to the City, he would work in the Collector’s new Museum, directing its decoration, and hoped that service there would also allow him freedom to pursue his own work. A. was to depart on a lengthy voyage overseas, as secretary to a merchant. They made many promises to each other, of fidelity and endless love, but they knew their separation would be long.

On their last day in his service, the Collector told them that had one more cabinet to clear and classify, the one which stood closest to him in his study. He said, further, that as a reward for their work they could choose one object to take away with them. 

A. picked up a mirror with a frame of twisted silver; its face was dull but as he examined it he felt a tremor pass through it to his hand, as if it were waking up to him. The Collector gave him a half-smile, and said, “That mirror will show you whatever it is in the world you wish to see. But are you sure you want to be an observer and not a maker? For what you plant will surely grow.” A. felt impatient with the Collector’s equivocation and looked forward to seeing what the mirror would show him.

T. chose a simple-looking wooden box and the Collector told him that whatever was kept within it would remain fresh and alive without air or water. “Rumour has it,” he said, “that Maria of Turin kept her husband’s heart in it after his, ah, _sudden death_ and they say it continued to beat until she herself breathed her last and caused the organ to be extracted and buried with her.” T. made a face at the gruesome history of his gift but tucked it away into his pocket with a thoughtful expression.

That night they packed their few belongings and their new treasures and said goodbye with broken words and ardent bodies.

T. dove into his work in the City’s Museum with dedication but despite the fresh scenes and vivid encounters of his travels, A. found himself distracted and ill at ease. Even while he was busy in his daily labours he would find his mind drifting to his lost love and wondering what he was doing and with whom he was speaking. Of course, he had his mirror, so in his few hours of leisure or to pass the time on long voyages, he could look into it and ask it to show him T., far away and busy with his own pursuits. As the months passed, A. spent longer and longer gazing into the mirror. He began to be absent from mealtimes, the better to spend time with his eyes occupied in anxious surveillance; he poured over the mirror late into the night and on waking, his first action would be to reach for it. The mirror seemed to learn his desires, so very soon he did not even need to instruct it to find him T. He could mutter, “Show me,” and T. would appear, painting, laughing, always surrounded by friends and admirers. A. would often try to resist the pull of the mirror, feeling that his own suspicions were clouding his vision, but before long he would snatch it up again, every time expecting that this time he would see T. in the arms of another. He _wanted_ to see such a thing, if only to end the dreadful anticipation that one day he would. He would look into it and see an image of T. painting alone, late in the evening, working by candlelight, but then there would be shadows against the wall which would seem to resolve themselves into the shapes of other men. In the same moment, the mirror might show T. innocently occupied in cleaning his brushes or saying his prayers, but the more A. became consumed with thoughts of T.’s infidelity, the more terrible were the scenes which he came to glimpse in the mirror: he saw him in the grip of large hands, on his knees in service to unseen lovers or at the centre of a tangle of bodies. 

Eventually, to save himself from madness, sleepless and desperate as he was, he put the mirror away in the deepest recess of his travelling chest and resolved never to look into it or to think of T. again. He turned his mind only to business and built a trade of his own, eventually becoming solvent enough to leave the merchant’s employ and began to make his own fortune. He became cold and unsmiling, efficient and quick in his work, but friendless in the world.

After another year, he returned to his home country and the City, where he was prevailed upon to visit the Museum, which had recently displayed a magnificent set of murals, painted upon its walls and high ceilings by a young artist. A. knew immediately that this must be the work of T. and at first he resolved not to enter the Museum, but curiosity overcame him. 

When he stepped into the atrium of the Museum, at first he saw only a riot of colour and dazzling forms. Then he found he recognised details: fruit trees, moonflowers, swooping bats, wheeling stars and graceful statues, before they resolved into a whole and he realised what it depicted. It was without doubt the villa in C. In amongst the scenes of the garden, he saw two figures, who might have been Adam and Eve, but to A.’s eye were clearly himself and T.. They reappeared here and there, and then in one corner A. noticed, with a pang of dread, that here the smaller figure had been painted alone and in ashy colours, curled in upon itself.

As he stood, bewildered, a gentlemen walked by and commented to his companion, “Wonderful work indeed. What a shame such a talent should be lost so young. He was betrayed, alas, in love, and when the work here was finished he fell ill and has not recovered.”

A. could find no-one who could tell him where T. was but just as he was about to dissolve into despair he remembered his mirror. Ransacking his old travelling chests, he found it still intact and begged it to show him once more what he most wished to see.

The dull glass of the mirror misted as it had always done but instead of showing the scenes of merriment and pleasure which he had both longed and hated to see, the image that formed itself was a dreadful one: T. pale and supine, looking, indeed, very close to death, and alone, holding his hand out to an empty room… a room which was, undoubtedly, the attic of the mansion in C.

A. hired the fastest horse he could find and rode through the night, arriving at the old house as dawn began to break. Although it had been shut up only a year ago the estate looked as if it had been abandoned for a century. The garden was overgrown with weeds and the trees in the orchard were dead. One of the gates was off its hinges, leaning drunkenly and heaped around by fallen leaves. Fallen branches lay across the paths which had once been so elegantly kept and ivy choked the walls of the house. The great door was not locked and A. opened it to find no obstacle in his path. The windows of the ground floor were smashed and, within, the rooms were littered with broken tiles. The few pieces of remaining furniture were mildewed and ivy grew over the walls, from which scraps of gilt paper hung loose. When no answer came to his tentative greeting, he made for the staircase. 

He climbed the stairs feeling as if all the great empty house around him was holding its breath. Their old room led off from the gallery and, trembling, A. pushed at the door which opened with a familiar loud creak. And there, on the bed they had made their own, lay T., as quiet as death. For a dreadful moment A. was sure that his flight had been in vain and that T. was lost to him forever. He dropped to his knees beside him and covered his face with kisses, feeling for his pulse and begging him to open his eyes but T. did not stir. His hands were clutched around a small carved box which A. recognised as T.’s choice from the Collector’s cabinet. A. gently removed it from his loose grip and opened it, not knowing what could be inside. Lying within was one object: a peach stone, not dried and withered, but glistening and slightly damp to the touch and still with some golden tendrils of flesh caught in its grooves and tiny valleys. A. picked it up and brought it to his lips, touching his tongue to its rough edges and tasting the faint taste of juice and immediately it seemed to hum with life and grow warm in his palm. The two parts of the pit halved to reveal the tender kernel within and when he nudged it with the tip of his finger it pulsed with the life of green things and the growing world. All of a sudden he remembered the Collector’s words to him, and knew that it needed to be in the earth. He touched T.’s lips with his own one more time and ran down the stairs and out to the dim morning mist where he dropped to his knees and pushed the peach kernel into the earth. At once, the life of the garden was restored, the trees burst with fruit and flowers, the sun warmed the ground and the air was full of the sounds of birds and bees. The house shook off its cobwebbed sleep and A. was amazed to see it restored to its former beauty, now even greater than before, because as he stepped back into the entrance hall he saw that T.’s murals decorated the walls, curling gracefully up the stairway. And walking down the stairs towards him, restored to health and beauty, with sunlight in his hair and a smile which promised kisses for the present and true love forever, was T.

The house settled down after its reawakening and while it never again exploded with magic and henceforth required more mundane labour to maintain its grounds and masonry, it was renewed every day with the ordinary enchantments of love. They found that their separate enterprises had earned them funds enough to establish themselves as its owners and together they filled the house with art and friends and children, and found within their garden a picture of paradise, come to life.

**Moral: The _moral_ of this tale, explained here for you young ladies who do not attend when _Mama_ is reading aloud, is that _mirrors_ are rarely to be trusted.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get more than a smudge of fairy tale darkness into this one but it wanted a happy ending. 
> 
> urgh erk, I got a tumblr etal-later.tumblr.com


	3. The Key and the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve Dancing Princesses reduced to One Dancing Timothée 
> 
> A/T and T/OCs

Once, there was a King of a powerful and warlike nation. He had inherited the kingdom from his father, the usurper, and had reignited age-old conflicts with countries near and far, only with greater ruthlessness and cruelty than previous generations had mustered, and, therefore, with greater success. The King had only one child, a son, for the Queen died soon after the child’s birth. By the time the boy was in the flower of his youth, their enemies had been subdued and the King declared a period of peace. The people celebrated, as much as their customs and conventions would allow, for it was the way in this land to be stern and disciplined in all aspects of life. Drunkenness and licence were frowned upon, and it was not done to laugh too loudly, move too freely nor indulge too much in music and poetry.

The only disturbance to the relative peace of the court concerned the health of the Prince. Though he looked delicate he had always been strong and healthy, but lately a change of a strange kind had overcome him. Every evening, the Prince would retire to bed and remained in his chamber all night but in the morning his shoes were found to be quite worn through and full of holes, as if he had been dancing all night, and although he always said that he slept soundly, his eyes would be heavy and sometimes there were marks on the white skin of his wrists and neck. No-one could offer an explanation. The Prince’s room had no window and the King himself locked and bolted its one door at night. The court doctors could find no cause for his lassitude so physicians were called from the neighbouring lands. They brought various strange medicines and the Prince dutifully swallowed curious compounds and surrendered his body to their treatments without complaint, whether they set about plunging him into baths of ice or letting his blood. Priests came to test him in his devotions and to examine him for demonic interference, but he answered their questions with a perfect mildness and piety and they pronounced him to be as good and wholesome as ever. The seamstresses stitched him new shoes every day and whispered over their work, anxious for the Prince, for he was well-loved in the court even though his gentleness and sweetness were unusual for a man of that land.

The King grew impatient with the experiments of the learned men. He went to the Prince himself and angrily demanded an explanation, shaking the boy until his teeth rattled in his head but the Prince could not satisfy his demands. Eventually, the King made it known throughout the land that anyone who should come to the palace and discover the secret of his son’s condition within three nights’ watching would be given his hand in marriage. If they failed, however, they would be put to death.

The first candidate to try was a young Duke, the handsome second son of one of the neighbouring kingdoms recently subdued by the King’s army. He was welcomed and given an excellent dinner and entertained in the great hall of the castle, where he presented the Prince with a pretty caged songbird and pressed him with many gracious compliments and courteous attentions. As night fell he was escorted to the Prince’s chambers and set to watch through the night. He endeavoured to stay awake by every possible means, such as conjugating Latin verbs and forcing himself to remember his most embarrassing moments, but he soon found he could not keep his eyes open. When the sun rose the Duke was found fast asleep and the Prince’s shoes were as worn through as ever, his nightshirt was undone and there were scratches on his smooth arms. The next night, the same thing happened, and the next, despite the young man attempting to stay standing all night to keep from falling into slumber. The servants discovered him dreaming peacefully on the floor and the Prince curled in his bed, unlaced, and with leaves in his tumbled and tangled hair. 

The King was ever a man of his word, so without delay or any suggestion of mercy, the Duke was taken to the place of execution and his handsome head was cut off.

The next to try was a warrior maiden from the north who scandalised the court at table by eating a whole chicken with her fingers and drinking a flagon of wine straight from the jug. The Prince was unfailing polite to her and managed to keep up a one-sided conversation throughout the evening, only flinching very slightly when she finished her meal, belched, and kissed him soundly on the mouth, before shouting, “Right let’s get this bag of balls rolling! What’s the loss of a night’s sleep for a kingdom and a pretty little husband!”

The following two mornings found her snoring in her chair in the Prince’s chambers and the third saw her head on a spike outside the executioner’s hut.

Despite the dreadful fate so freely offered to all-comers, a steady stream of noble adventurers visited the castle that year, tempted by reports of the Prince’s pliant beauty and the Kingdom’s evident power and wealth. On his solitary walks around the castle, the Prince could look across the walled garden and onto the green where the block was placed, ready for its next neck. The heads lolled on their spikes and he counted them off: there was the first duke, and, a few heads down, his even handsomer younger brother, not so good-looking now; next the chicken-eating warrior, then a student who had, over dinner, loudly referred to recent medical advances and announced to the court that the disorder was surely caused by neurotic tendencies, which would be cured once the Prince was married and no longer virgin; the most recent head belonged to a lord from the west - crows were pecking at the eyes which had watched the Prince across his chamber with calculating lust. 

Now it chanced that a Soldier, returning from the last of the King’s wars, found himself close by the castle. He was a strong and resourceful man, and very fair to look upon, although his years were increasing and the fighting had been long and relentless. He had no home of his own, and bethought himself to travel until his fate became clear. One morning he passed by an old woman carrying a heavy bundle and he stopped and offered to take it from her. They stepped over a small stream and she asked him to fetch her some water which he did with his own cup. When they arrived at her hut, he shared the last of his meagre store of food with her. The old dame asked him where he was travelling to. He said that he had thought of making his way to the castle to try his luck at uncovering the secret of what ailed the Prince. 

“For I wouldn’t mind being married to a Prince, and perhaps trying my hand at running the Kingdom one day. How hard can it be?” he remarked.

“Child’s play,” said the dame, “And indeed why should you not be King? You have shown yourself to be strong, kind and chivalrous, which makes you better than the ruffian who currently has his arse on the throne. In thanks for your good treatment of an old lady, here is some advice: when you are taken into the Prince’s chamber, he will offer you a glass of wine. Take great care not to drink any of it and very soon pretend to be asleep.”

Then she gave him a cloak and said, “Wear this and you will be invisible, and able to follow the Prince wherever he may lead you.”

The Soldier was full of gratitude, and armed with this good advice and the cunning cloak, he set his path to the castle and presented himself at the court.

The King received him, the Prince by his side, and announced that although the Soldier was not of noble birth he was a loyal servant of the Crown and therefore entitled to take his chance alongside his superiors. “For after all,” he muttered, rising from the throne, “we cannot slice off the head of every aristocrat in the land.” As he swept past his son, he added, with a sneer, “no matter how tempting a poison you are.” The Soldier chanced a look at the Prince and thought he saw a tremor around his sensitive mouth, but no more, and the Prince gave him only the most cursory of glances before following his father.

The Soldier was invited to join the court at dinner where he was pointedly ignored by the fine people. He caught the Prince’s eye once or twice, noting the young man’s carefully schooled calm and also a line of marks along his neck, which his curling hair only half hid. When the company took itself to bed, he was escorted to the Prince’s chambers, where a chair had been set for him just inside the doorway of the Prince’s room. The Soldier sat himself down and arranged himself comfortably. After a while, the Prince arrived, attended by a servant who turned back the bedcovers and tied the neck lacings of the Prince’s long white nightshirt, and brushed his hair, before taking his leave. The Prince stood by the bed, a little behind one of its corner posts, and the Soldier was glad to have the chance to look at him at close quarters. He was perfectly beautiful, though pale and grave. The dark circles under his eyes only accentuated their curious, changeable colour. His neck, above the collar of his severe gown, where the lacings seemed to be tied a little too tightly, was slender and every visible line of him, from ankle to eyebrow, seemed as if it had been drawn with the richest ink and a fine brush.

He stood so still and quiet that the Soldier almost jumped when he said, “Will you have a glass of wine to while away your long watch?” It was the first time that the Soldier had heard him speak and his voice was deep, sweet and musical.

The Soldier assented, keeping the old woman’s words in his mind. The Prince opened a cabinet, poured a glass of deep red wine into a tall crystal glass and brought it to the Soldier. The Soldier was thrown into a kind of confusion by his sudden proximity. The Prince was so very lovely, with his loose curls framing his face, and his elegant fingers just touching the Soldier’s as he passed over the glass. 

“Thank you, your Highness.”

“I hope the night will not be too taxing for you.” 

“I’ve known worse billets.”

The Prince lingered for a moment, his eyes tracking the glass as the Soldier raised it to his lips. 

“Goodnight then, your Highness,” the Soldier said, with a certain firmness, and as the Prince turned back to his bed he quickly poured away every drop. He smacked his lips loudly as if he had downed the wine and said, “Oh excellent, I could drink a…” Then he let the glass fall from his hand and pretended to fall into a deep sleep. He had always fancied himself a good actor.

After a while, he heard the Prince step softly across the room and felt fingers lightly touch his cheek, and then came a whisper: “Sleep soundly, you fool. You could have passed by this place and lived a long life.”

The Soldier kept his breathing steady and even let out a gentle snore, but opened his eyelids just a touch so that he could see what the Prince was up to. He was dressing rapidly, pulling on his latest pair of new shoes, and the Soldier watched as he opened a hidden niche in the cabinet and took out a golden key. Turning to the far wall of the chamber, the Prince held the key against the wall and all of a sudden a door appeared where certainly no door had been before. With a last glance over his shoulder, the Prince passed through it, and as soon as he was out of sight the Soldier leapt to his feet and drew the lengths of the cloak around him. Completely invisible, he followed the Prince out of the door and found himself immediately descending a long spiral staircase, lit all the way by flaming torches. The Soldier was a man of considerable height and broad of chest, but he could move quietly and he was careful not to catch up with the fleeting figure ahead of him. Down and down they went, surely past the level of the ground floor and even the cellars and dungeons of the castle. 

At last, just as the Soldier’s legs were beginning to ache from the rapid descent, the staircase ended in a narrow passageway which led into a beautiful grove. The trees were most extraordinary, with bronze and silver branches and jewel-encrusted leaves, lining a path which wound down to a lake. The stars danced above in the inky sky and the moon shone bright on the dark waters and across the grove as the Soldier continued to pursue the Prince. At the water’s edge, there was a little fleet of boats and other figures began to appear from the shining trees, many dressed in strange and wonderful clothes, with colours touching their lips and eyes so that it was difficult to tell even whether they were male or female. His own Prince was dressed all in black, with a silvery sheen across his cheeks. The Prince and his companions stepped into the boats and the Soldier made sure to step in behind the Prince, rocking the little vessel as slightly as he was able and at once the boats began to sail, unaided, across the lake to an island at its centre, where a mansion stood, with lights and music blazing from all of its windows. A bonfire lit the water’s edge as the boats drew to a standstill and the arrivals made their way past it and towards the grand house. They were welcomed by a crowd of gay revellers, drinks appeared and the music rose and the Soldier watched as the Prince embraced those who came to greet him, with not a trace of stiffness and reserve, but with a loose-limbed grace and endless smiles. 

Soon the party arranged themselves into lines for dancing. The first dances were slow and stately, danced in pairs, with the dancers walking and passing in intricate patterns. As time passed, the style of the dance changed and now they introduced voltas and turns, the dancers clasped hands, and now waists; the music took on a faster cadence and then became almost fierce. The soldier caught frequent glimpses of the Prince, always dancing and never resting, as he was turned and lifted, passed from one hand to the next, often at the head of the line or the centre of the circle. At the last, the dancers were in couples dancing close in a style the soldier had never witnessed, touching everywhere along their bodies and eventually at the lips also. The Soldier, still wrapped in his cloak, watched from the doorway as the Prince danced with a young man of his own age, their hips moving together in slow circles, their arms twined around the other’s back, their fingers finding purchase in each other’s hair and slipping over cheeks and lips. The Prince’s partner dipped him backwards so that he was bent into a graceful arch and stroked the length of his body in a motion that should have been lascivious but made the Soldier, with a sudden surprise of feeling, only envy him the liberty of such a touch.

After many hours, the night-sky began to show the faint hue of dawn and the dancers began slowly and reluctantly to separate from their partners, with sighs and kisses. The Prince hurried to the shore and washed his face and hands in the clear waters of the lake and then sped back to the boats, the Soldier an unknown shadow at his back all the way. When they reached the grove, the Soldier raced ahead and ran up the staircase in time to arrange himself in his chair, as if he had slept unwaking through the night. 

He heard the Prince steal softly back into the room, and listened for the little click as the key was once again hidden, then the rustle of clothes and the creak of the bed as the Prince lay down. 

The Soldier waited until he heard the Prince’s breathing became deep and even in sleep and tiptoed quietly over to look at him. There was no trace of the silver on his cheek and he looked very young and tender, with his fingers tucked under his chin, quite different from the wild dancer of the evening. The Soldier drew the coverlet closer around the Prince’s shoulders and returned to his watching place. He drowsed for an hour or so before servants arrived to wake them and on finding the Prince’s shoes in the usual state and the Prince himself drooping and exhausted, they shook the Soldier roughly awake and ordered him out to have his breakfast. The Soldier paused at the door, and bowed to the Prince, who only stared back with dark eyes burning in his pale face, as the servants bustled about him, plumping his pillows and pressing him to eat.

The Soldier passed the day in wandering the corridors and manicured gardens of the castle, where roses stood to attention in rows and no weed disturbed the lawns, which were not to be walked upon. In a far corner of the east wing he followed the sound of music to a small chamber, where, through the door which stood half ajar, he saw the Prince playing at the piano. Being fond of a tune and caught by the Prince’s absorbed face, the Soldier stayed to listen, until a loud yawn he could not suppress after his night’s excitements alerted the Prince to his presence.

“Are you spying on me?” he called from the piano, his voice tight with anger.

“Isn’t that my job?” the Soldier replied.

“My days are my own,” the Prince retorted, “and will be… until I am married.”

“Why do you play in such an out of the way apartment?” the Soldier asked. “Doesn’t the court wish to hear you? You play very well, as far as a clod like myself can tell.”

The Prince blushed and fiddled with the keys, saying quietly, “no-one here likes music. I’m permitted to play in this room, for a brief period each day –“ and then regaining his former imperiousness, “which you have now interrupted and spoiled.” And then he sat, silent and unresponsive, until the Soldier left, hearing an angry storm of notes start up behind him as he closed the door.

That night, the Prince again brought the Soldier a glass of wine. This time he did not go straight to his bed but sat by the fire in his white gown, and cast glances at the Soldier, as if to make sure he drank and the Soldier, sitting in his corner, had to be cunning in order to dispose of the wine little by little. 

“Aren’t you tired?” the Soldier asked, after a while.

The Prince did not reply but said, “Tell me, why did you come to this place when you must know that only death awaits you?”

“Perhaps I thought I was cleverer than those other fellows. Or perhaps,” he smiled, “I just wanted to look at the view from here.”

“The view from atop the executioner’s spike is not an expansive one.”

The Soldier laughed aloud and the Prince looked up, his lips parting in surprise at the fulsome noise. The castle was a reserved and regimented place and laughter was not encouraged. Then his face shadowed again.

“You came for the money I suppose. And, of course...” he made a gesture with both hands indicating his own body, which seemed self-mocking rather than arrogant.

The Soldier shrugged. “I’m just a poor wanderer. My battles are over, thank god, and I have nowhere in particular to go. Want and lack of an easier path brought me to your fireside. And yes, maybe a curiosity to see what the life of a Prince would be.” He tipped his wine at the young man, almost forgetting and drinking directly from it. “But now…” he hesitated and the Prince leaned forward, looking intently at him.

“Now?”

“I would do it without reward, if only because you seem so sad. I would like to help you, if I am able, and free you from this curse.” 

“Yes,” the Prince said quietly, “I am cursed indeed. And you are too, now that you are here.”  
And with that, he took himself to bed.

All proceeded as before. The Soldier pretended to sleep, the Prince dressed and stole away and the Soldier followed him down the winding stair to the island mansion.

The dancing began as it had before but this evening it was of a different sort, languorous and slow and the dancers did not remain in couples but moved as a mass. The Prince cast off his clinging shirt and surrendered his body to the touch of many hands. As the night wore on, the dancing ceded to all manner of ecstatic unions. Everywhere the Soldier looked were scenes of thrilling and willing debauchery, but it was the Prince who seemed the centre of it all to the Soldier’s hidden eye. He was undressed and caressed and kissed, and taken by his partner of the previous night, and then by another, in front of them all. The Soldier told himself that if the Prince cried out against his treatment then he would throw off his cloak and rescue him but the Prince was alight with pleasure and satisfaction; he painted his body with the tribute of his lovers and only called out for more, lending his mouth and his hands to the pleasure of others, until he fell back, satiated, his head in the lap of a beautiful girl who fed him grapes and stroked his hair, as another cleaned his body with great tenderness.

After their return across the lake, as he had the night before, the Soldier hastened on before the Prince and was feigning sleep in his chair by the time the Prince arrived, a little breathless. The Soldier waited until he heard the sound of the Prince slipping on his nightclothes and opened his eyes, to see the Prince standing by his bed, his hair tousled from his rush, and his worn shoes in his hand.

“Good morning,” said the Soldier, pretending to yawn. “I see I have once again failed to keep a decent watch. What will become of me?” He rose with a mighty stretch and walked over to the Prince who seemed frozen to the spot. The Soldier took the shoes from his slim hands and inspected their worn and dirty soles. He shook his head, “What a mystery this is,” he said softly, looking deep into the Prince’s eyes. “Who can fathom it?”

The Prince said nothing but raised his chin with a suddenly lordly air, and turned from him, getting into his bed and pulling the sheets over his head. 

All that day, the Soldier watched the Prince. He sat a little apart from the conversations of the court, his eyes downcast, and looking so innocent and pure that it was almost impossible to believe that he was the same creature who had twisted in the arms of his lovers the night before, offering his white neck to their grip, his body to their invasions. Did he remember? Did he _know_ what he did at nights, far below and away from the daylight world? If he did not, then some infernal power had him in its grasp. If he _did_ , then this boy who looked like an angel had consciously sent a line of people to their deaths and fed the executioner’s spikes with their blood.

On the third night, all was as it had been before. The Soldier threw away his wine and followed the Prince out into the grove by the lake. On this night, he broke off branches from the trees of bronze as he passed by. The Prince turned at the sharp snap of the breaking branch and said to one of his companions, “did you hear something?” But they only teased him for being a frightened goose, and told him that he should forget the worries of the world above. Further on, the Soldier took a branch of silver and a handful of jewelled leaves and again, the Prince turned at the sound. “Do you not think there is someone following?” he asked his friends, but again they laughed at his fears and urged him forward to the delights to come.

When they entered the ballroom, the Soldier stayed very close to the Prince rather than standing apart as he had done before, and followed him instead, as he danced and kissed his way around the room. Every now and then the Prince glanced behind him, with a nervous air, unknowingly looking straight at the invisible Soldier, who moved as closely to the Prince as he dared, feeling almost as if he was dancing with him himself, although unseen and unable to touch him as his partners were so free to do.

After several hectic dances, the Prince took up a golden goblet of wine and quick as breath, the Soldier whisked it from his grasp, drank it down and placed it back in his hand, empty, enjoying the way the Prince’s eyes grew wide and his hand trembled. The Prince’s companions would not hear him when he asked “Did you not see that?” and said he had been drinking too much already. Ill at ease, the Prince left the party, dismissing all the attempts of his friends to make him stay and crossed the lake to return home, with the Soldier following, but not before he had taken the golden cup away with him. 

When the Soldier lay in his pretence of sleep, the Prince returned and the Soldier felt the nudge of his bare toes against his leg as he tested his somnolence. 

The Prince laughed mirthessly, whispering to himself, “I should not have worried. I thought you had sharp eyes but you are just like the others.”

After a little while, when the Soldier pretended to wake, it was to see the Prince sitting huddled by the fire. When he sat up and said quietly, “My lord?” the Prince held out his worn shoes and there were tears in his eyes. “You should flee,” he said, “don’t let them take your head. It is I who am wicked and wrong and you should not suffer in my place.”

The Soldier was moved by his sadness and, coming to kneel before him, confessed, “I would die to protect you. My life has been one of shadows and struggle but you have shown me a light I did not know existed.”

Though tears continued to stand in his eyes, a smile tugged at the Prince’s lips and the seconds seem to stretch between them as they clasped hands, but at that moment, a rumpus of servants and attendants arrived outside the door and it was time for the Soldier to dress hastily and appear before the King to make his report.

“Speak!” said the King, “and satisfy me or lose your head, as we wagered.”

The Prince stepped forward and said “Father, I…” but the King turned on him with such fury that he was quickly silenced and the Soldier spoke out to save him from the King’s violent words.

“Your Majesty, I can indeed uncover the mysteries of the Prince’s disturbed nights. He has been under a spell which has caused him to leave his room at night and journey to a world apart from our own.” The Prince looked at him in shock, his face growing pale, but he did not try to interrupt. The Soldier described how the Prince would arise from his bed, unlock the secret door and descend to the grove. He produced the branches of bronze and silver, and showed the golden cup.

The Soldier described only the dancing in the palace by the lake; he did not say a word about the other pleasures the Prince had taken there and made no accusation against his virtue, saying that he believed the Prince to have been sleep-walking under the power of some spell. Finally he led the King to the Prince’s room, and retrieved the key, showing them how it caused the door to appear. 

The King was amazed and full of gratitude. The Soldier was ordered to take charge of the key and to make sure the door was never summoned again.

“You have saved my son from this enchantment and you shall have his hand, and take your place as my heir. My son is … too delicate for the demands of rule and you have strong shoulders and a good mind.”

They were to be married in a fortnight and while the castle was flung into busy preparation, the Soldier and the Prince were left alone for much of the time but the Prince was once again grave and reserved in his manner. They walked together in the gardens and to cover their silence the Soldier spoke a little of the wars and how glad he was that that time was over.

“And in a few days time you will be given to me in marriage.” 

“I will.”

“Are you… happy to enter into such an arrangement?”

“The terms of the challenge were clear. My father would have presented me to whoever succeeded.”

“I will not… that is, I will not expect to… Forgive me, I don’t know how to speak of this without offending your modesty.”

“My _modesty_? Tell me,” the Prince halted and picked one of the carefully trimmed roses, “will you want me as I am here, or as I was below?” 

“I would have you as you wish to be.” 

The Prince began to tear the petals from the rose with nervous gestures. “But you will have every right to take possession of what you have won.”

“It would depend on who it is that I have won.”

“And that will be for you to decide.” He presented the Soldier with the denuded rose and turned on his heel to return to the castle.

To celebrate the coming wedding, the King announced the beginning of a new military campaign. One last kingdom high in the eastern mountains had held against his rule and he could not rest until it was under his control. He summoned the Soldier and told him that on the morning after the wedding, he must lead the army east and take charge of the campaign. The King placed a heavy iron bracelet on his arm as a sign of his authority and named him commander of the army.

The wedding day itself was a joyless blur of ceremony and protocol, remembering where and when to bow. The Soldier was not allowed to speak to or touch the Prince and when he thought of the coming departure and a return to the battlefield he was full of misery.

After the austere festivities, the Soldier repaired to the room that had been the Prince’s and was now theirs. He refused to have help to undress but cast off the high boots and rigid clothing he had worn all that long day, and sat by the fire, barefoot and shirtless, in only his britches. When the Prince came in he was followed as usual by his servants who fussed around him with greater attention than ever. When they came to finish their preparations, the valet addressed himself to the soldier and asked, “Will you have his majesty’s laces tied, or left open, my lord?”

The Soldier gaped for a moment and covered his confusion by saying only, “as he wishes.“

The servants exchanged glances and without asking the Prince anything further, they swiftly fastened the laces around his neck and left. 

The Soldier said, “Come here, please, if you will.”

The Prince came to him immediately and stood before him. The Soldier, very gently, touched his shoulders and his cheekbones and stroked back a curl. He ran his fingers around the stiff fabric of the Prince’s gown where it met the silken skin of his neck and stroked about his face. “Here, let me undo this nonsense,” he said and with quick, capable movements, unfastened the restrictive laces. The Prince took a deep breath when they were loosened. They stood together and the Soldier made no more attempt to touch him. The Prince studied his face some time before asking, “So you will go to back to war tomorrow?”

“Yes, but before I go… I will give you your freedom.” The Soldier took from round his neck the thin chain from which hung the golden key and put it into the Prince's hand. “Here, take it and go to the garden to stay, to play your music and… dance. That is where you are happy and that is where you belong.”

The Prince’s face transformed with joy for a moment and then quickly became guarded again. “Are you in earnest?”

“I am. I would not keep you here for all the world.”

The Prince looked down at the key where it lay across his fingers. “But… what of your reward?”

The Soldier smiled down at him. “I will relinquish it, although I cannot pretend I will not always dream of what might have been.”

With the swift practicality of an escaping prisoner, the Prince threw off his nightclothes and dressed himself in the garments he had worn on the nights the Soldier kept his watch. By the wall, he held out the key and the door shimmered into view. But before he stepped through it, he turned to the Soldier and said, “Husband, will you not come with me? There are no secrets between us now and you will find we can live together as happily below as we would have unhappily above.”

The Soldier was startled by the offer of what he now so fiercely desired. The thought that he would be allowed to have and to hold the Prince, but without confining him to death, to throng his beautiful face with kisses and to learn how to make him cry out with desire as his other lovers had done was intoxicating.

“But… will I not lose you to those others?”

“No, you chose to free me so I am gladly yours. With the others, it is all as a dream. You'll see.”

The Soldier rose, half-undressed and barefoot as he was, and followed the Prince. In the morning, the servants came to wake them and found the room empty. Not once did the door reappear, no matter what the wise men of the court attempted, and the Prince and his Soldier were never seen or heard of again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is basically the Grimms’ version of "The Twelve Dancing Princesses" from which I took a few lines, including one of the Princesses being called a goose. The different tellings are collected at SurLaLune including lovely illustrations http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/twelvedancing/index.html  
> I’ve always loved this tale but it is awful in lots of ways: the princesses dance every night and have a ball until the Soldier reveals their secret and then the oldest one has to marry him – no more nights out. 
> 
> Thanks for giving these tales a go. I enjoyed writing them but I think that’s probably it, maybe someone else would like to lock Armie up in a tower until his hair grows long enough to climb or write Timothée as Rumplestiltskin. (um mebs don’t do that last one though).
> 
> & I'm etal-later.tumblr.com


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